


Unbroken

by Yasha_Sis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aerys Is His Own Warning, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Growing Up, House Lannister, House Martell, House Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, No idea where I'm going with this, Not importance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Those were the times, character in order of appearance, make this easy, really fucked up times, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasha_Sis/pseuds/Yasha_Sis
Summary: Nymeria has always known duty. It is a thing that burrows in Martell blood almost as deeply as their rages, and she will perform hers, as is expected. Most lacking the swinging bit between their legs are limited in some capacity, but her people have always been.... flexible in traditional roles. She looks forward to showing these Northern Lords what a Martell woman can do.If only to aggravate her brothers into an early grave.





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> “Dont,” She snaps, voice a whip. “I’m old enough to handle my own pains.”
> 
> “Mayhaps your big brother yearns for you to want his attentions.”
> 
> Her temper flares. “I’m not a child!”
> 
> If anything this hurts him more. “You’re seven.” He returns quietly, arms unmoved. 
> 
> Nym hates herself for wanting this comfort. She does. But she also loves Oberyn most of her siblings and she missed him so very, very much. He was the only one to ask of her training, to visit. Elia’s seasickness only explains away part of their time apart. 
> 
> It takes all of her slowly growing discipline to shake her head and step away. “I’m eight.” she says, coolly. Her Name day was almost a fortnight ago. “Our prince awaites.”

“Come, Nym.” Her brother urged with an outstretched hand, dark brown eyes warm at the circumstances of her return. “Brother has wished to reunite with you for some time and I fear he may grow mad if we wait any longer .”

 

She’s hesitant to take Oberyn’s hand but he does not frown at her reluctance. If anything, his smile widens encouragingly. She wonders why.

 

The last time she saw Doran was just after she and her siblings traveled to view the keeps north of Dorne. She was three, always underfoot and seen as more of a nuisance to her eldest brother than family. He loved her, she remembered that vaguely from the late nights when he would catch her fumbling around in the dark searching for her pet cat, Daeron. Doran would help her look where Oberyn would distract until Dareon returned on his own. 

 

Attention of that kind could not come without fondness, but she remembers also, that she was responsible for their mother’s failing health and Doran’s growing responsibilities.

 

Doran had never hated her for this, none of her siblings did, but he had never loved her for it either.

 

Oberyn on the other hand, loved her all the more for their brother’s distance and when mother finally passed, just over a year after she learned the death of her friend Joanna Lannister, Oberyn and Elia were the parents she gained. 

 

Or they were until Doran sent her away.

 

If Oberyn fought for her to stay, he didn’t show her this and Elia was sent to court a month prior in the hopes of securing a betrothal. She just wished she knew  _ why  _ they cast her out in the first place. 

 

Letters were few and far between from Kingslanding. When Nymeria did receive word from her beloved sister, it left much unspoken aside from Elia’s daily mishaps and continuing desire to see her baby sister. The kind Martell was happy, if ill at ease with the social climate of the capitol, and their exchanges painted an engaging picture. Were the youngest Martell a normal child, she may have been taken by the topic.

 

Nymeria is in no way distractible enough to fail in noticing no one answers her questions, though Elia promises all would be understood once she returned. 

 

_ When _ said return would occur, amounted to some version of soon.    
  


Oberyn’s responses lacked the sympathetic tones of Elia’s but they were no less assured that she would return eventually and to enjoy the opportunity for what it was.

 

Perhaps that is why the youngest Princess of Dorne stares at his hand, heart in tumult.

 

Nymeria Martell lifts dark brown eyes to her brother’s near black. She learned when she was three that his gaze wasn’t the pitch it seemed, Viper’s eyes they had said. It’s a brown like the skin of the dark walnuts that grew in the highlands of the Reach. Daunting, if you’ve never seen them in the right light, but she had never considered her brother someone to fear. Either of them.

 

She wouldn’t now.

 

“Of course, Brother.” Nymeria says in a voice that would do her mother proud, all icy politeness and blistering courtesy. “I would never dream to place my prince in such a state. We are family after all.”

 

It is that which finally cracked her brother’s cheer. His smile falters and the muscle on the left side of his jaw twitched in a way she knew meant frustration.

 

“Nymeria-” 

 

She ignores him and sweeps past with as much dignity as a Princess of her pedigree could muster. 

 

* * *

 

 

The way to Prince Doran’s seat is easily recalled. Mother brought her to this place often before their trip across the continent and she could find her way half drugged and blindfolded. That said, it didn’t mean she would make her way there in  _ any  _ form of haste. 

 

If Martells are similar to any beast, they are like elephants in their grudgeholding and she would present herself to Doran when she damn well pleased. 

 

Oberyn follows, his silence grating and the air of brooding probably annoys Nym more than the lack of speech itself. She hadn’t seen him in three years, Doran and Elia four, but she recalled he could never be silent outside of playing a prank or stewing in upset. That he held his tongue now meant her cold reception affected him worse than she thought.

 

_ Or, he’s playing you, silly girl. _

 

Regardless, it annoys her and Nym was never one to suffer things which soured her mood.

 

“Your brooding speaks louder than any attempt at conversation, Oberyn. Speak or leave me. I’ve no wish to listen to you  _ pout _ .”

 

There is a pause. She could almost see him swelling with offense in her mind’s eye but when she tilts her head to face him, his expression was not offended, more decidedly pained.

 

“Do you hate us so, sweet sister?”

 

The question makes her shoulders tense. Nymeria is incapable of hating her blood. She’s tried hard enough to know.

 

Irritable, Nym forcibly relaxes and answers him with another question. “Do you hate Doran for exiling you in the wake of poisoning Edgar Yronwood?”

 

His jaw muscle jumps again. “I see your tongue has only grown more insolent in our absence.”

 

“A pity, I’m sure.” She replies flippantly, cutting her detour short and proceeding directly to Doran’s solar. She has no desire to deal with any of her family right now. She’d rather hit the yard, bath and then sleep. The journey to Sunspear was lengthy from Braavos and she wishes only for a warm meal and moderately cool place to lay her head. She’d take a servant’s quarters if it would be readied sooner-

 

A hand lands on her shoulder, unyielding and abrupt. The contact so unexpected the Princess cringes in revulsion, body jerking around to retaliate before her mind can register the urge. She spins, elbow knocking the grip from her and hidden blade poised to stab between the floating ribs on his exposed side, lip curled in a snarl. She freezes as her ‘attacker’ registers, breath stuck in her throat and hand clenched so tightly around her slim knife that it shakes.

 

The fact that she is on edge enough to attack her brother makes Nymeria face heat and bile climb up her throat. That Oberyn trusted  **_her_ ** enough not to react only made her heart hurt more.

 

She backs off immediately, eyes burning and gaze aside. 

 

“I- I don’t like being touched.” Shame sours her tongue enough to make her stutter, but it’s the only thing she will offer in apology. Pride wars with sisterly affection and she scolds herself for being so skittish. 

 

Nymeria couldn’t bear to look into his eyes, knowing he would be equal parts hurt and angry that she could feel threatened in what should be her home, by him of all people-

 

“Oh little fox,” Oberyn says, voice a waver. The tone is so startling she glances back at him and regrets it because Oberyn looks  _ devastated _ . There is fury there in the pit of his black walnut gazes, fury and hate and a desire to maim, but also a crushing sorrow. He knows there are very few reasons someone of her personality would shy from touch in such a way. 

 

He drops to his knees and holds out his arms, making no move to grab her in an embrace like she knows he wished to. It is this consideration that kept her from sneering at him for thinking she’d need comfort after years of separation. After years of his  _ not  _ being there when she was hurting and in pain. 

 

But she is Nymeria, named for the Warrior Queen who saved her people from extinction in the East and forced the Martell power to see a culture’s worth. She does not need  **coddling** **_._ ** Not anymore.

 

“Dont,” She snaps, voice a whip. “I’m old enough to handle my own pains.”

 

“Mayhaps your big brother yearns for you to want his attentions.”

 

Her temper flares. “I’m not a child!”

 

If anything this hurts him more. “You’re  _ seven _ .” He returns quietly, arms unmoved. 

 

Nym hates herself for wanting this comfort. She does. But she also loves Oberyn most of her siblings and she  _ missed  _ him so very, very much. He was the only one to ask of her training, to visit. Elia’s seasickness only explains away part of their time apart. 

 

It takes all of her slowly growing discipline to shake her head and step away. “I’m eight.” she says, coolly. Her Name day was almost a fortnight ago. “Our prince awaits.”

 

“Little fox-”

 

“Later, Obie.” 

 

It’s an underhanded move, using her nickname from her toddlerhood to sway his opinion, but it works and Oberyn only needs a moment more to compartmentalize this new knowledge and stand. “Later then,” He promises. She does not shiver at the darkness of his tone and she knows he will wring everything out of her once they are alone, but Nymeria cannot bring herself to care. Doran requires a clear head. She must send her greetings like the proper younger sibling should. If Oberyn forces her now she will break and for this first meeting she needs to be strong.

 

Her elder brother no longer trails behind her on the path to Doran’s solar and Nymeria is pathetically grateful for this. It eases the thread of tension which hovered every moment someone sits just outside of eyesight. 

 

Oberyn keeps his hands visible at all times and refrains from making swift movements in any direction. He points out the changes to the Keep in a warm baritone that once read her to sleep at night and Nymeria loves him just a little more for it. He leads the way through the ornate Martell doors and Nymeria allows her hand to stroke the well carved wood of the door siding in the time before admittance.

 

Doran’s solar smells of home.

 

The first thing she takes note of with her brother is that Doran has aged more in the past four years than she thought humanly possible. Threads of grey are already showing in his thick black mane and his face is heavily lined along the brow and mouth, laugh lines being overrun by stress. 

 

It’s… uncomfortably similar to Mother’s degradation.

 

But Nym doesn’t want to think of mother while looking at her eldest sibling. She may grow sentimental and say or do something to give Doran the impression his decision to sent her to Essos wasn’t the death of her childhood.

 

Nym gives a flawless curtsy, wild inky curls spilling over her shoulder to nearly touch the stone floor. “Prince Doran, I must request your forgiveness for my appearance. Prince Oberyn implied there was great urgency in meeting you as soon as we struck land.”

 

Her words are the same cold politeness that irritated Oberyn but Doran has always been harder to rile. “It is good to see you, sweet sister. I feared you had forgotten us when you arrived nearly a year after my summons.”

 

The rebuke is mild but Nym chaffs at the mere implication that she should have done better. Preventing herself from being sold into Slavery is accomplishment enough in her book.

 

Nymeria straightens, smile wide and one would thing pleased if they couldn’t see the chill in her gaze. “I had much to prepare before our departure and the seas were disagreeable on our path, but here I stand: hale and whole and eager to know why House Martell now has need of it’s youngest princess when Slaver city was such an  _ appropriate  _ home.”

 

Doran frowns a little, mahogany gaze shifting to Oberyn as he bows and stalks out the door without a word to his brother. It is little surprise to Nymeria that the door slams shut in his departure. She could have done without giving Oberyn more fuel for his likely dark thoughts. 

 

Nymeria buries the sudden swell of shame with practice as Doran blinks rapidly in the wake of Oberyn’s departure. “You continue to weave exaggerations, Nymeria, but I’ll move on. I had thought Oberyn mentioned our desire to have you home in his letters.” When his youngest sibling remains uncharacteristically silent, Doran’s gaze grows concerned. “Something has happened.” 

 

It is a declaration, not a question so Nymeria merely tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. “I’ve returned. I suppose that’s something. The why, I think, is far more curious than anything else that calls to your attention, brother.”

 

“Why? I wished to have you home once more.” Doran replies in a cautious tone, brows pensive.  “I had meant for you to return before I wed Mellario but Aerys had need of me and Oberyn was otherwise occupied. I would not bring you home to an empty house.”

 

The sentiment behind it should have made tears well in her eyes with happiness. She had wanted to come home every day of that second year, pleading with Oberyn, with Elia, in her letters. The answer would always be the same.

 

“You wished for me to learn of our origins in Essos. I remember.” Her skin itched and Nymeria has to smooth her hands against her dress to keep from fisting them. The smile sits wrong on her face. “I learned.”

 

It amuses her that Doran responds to false cheer with more caution, gaze sweeping her form to take every detail into account. His mind is at work on the odd tension in his siblings, she can tell, and the fact that he seems  _ unsure _ of the reason to her ire only makes her more enraged. That pales in comparison to how she feels after he opens his mouth.

 

“Was your stay not enlightening?” Doran ends up asking with a sigh. “Mother has always encouraged the three of us to travel to Essos before her death and swore me to see you there when you grew older. I thought sending you with Oberyn would be true to the adventures you insisted on taking as a girl.” The man’s voice is heavy with exasperation and Nym can’t help herself.

 

She **_laughs_ ** . It is an  _ ugly _ ,  **broken** thing that spills like venom between her lips.  Eyes, dark with hostility, glitter in the sunlight as she watches her brother through her bangs.

 

“Enlightening? Oh. Oh yes, my prince. I learned  _ so much  _ in the company of those born in the Free Cities. Would you wish to know?”

 

_ Stop! Telling him will only hurt- _

 

But Doran is staring her as if she were an agitated rattlesnake and she cannot help the savage desire of wanting his regrets.

 

“I learned that coin is the ultimate form of loyalty amongst a people who sell one another for profit. I learned even a favored friend could sell your life to a Slaver’s ship if promised his own in turn. I learned the easiest way for a child to kill a man is to aim for the groin and inner thigh because we don’t have the strength to beat them to death or the height to slit their throats. I learned that ‘No’ and ‘Stop’ are just  **_words_ ** **,** brother, and the only way to truly enforce them is through strength or skill.”

 

Doran’s face is white, lips thin and expression stricken. Nym’s crying now, she can feel the hot trails slip down her cheeks and she hateshates _ hates _ that she does this in front of him instead of Oberyn. Hates that she  _ wants _ Oberyn, the brother who  _ left  _ her with these people to gain his Maester’s links. So she learned alright: Learned to fight hard and dirty until the one who wished to leash her lies glassy eyed with a smile carved below their chin.

 

Her eldest brother stands and Nymeria snarls at him as he moves from behind his desk towards her. “I don’t want your pity.” She bites out, chin high and eyes spitting. “I want you to know why I stopped begging to come home. Why I almost didn’t return to my supposed  _ family- _ ”

 

“Nymeria, I didn’t-” Doran gasps, hands reaching, reaching and only grasping air because the young Princess is already sprinting out the door and away from her disappointing liege. 

* * *

 

It is Oberyn who finds her, shaking from exhaustion in the sparring pits, slashing at the husk of a dummy that is now barely a torso on a stick. Her brother makes some signal to the wary boys who practice outside her wrath because, in a matter of seconds, they are alone. 

 

“Dameon looks to have born the brunt of your ire, sweet sister, outside your new friend here.”

 

Nymeria does not respond to her brother’s ill conceived attempt at humor. She only swings harder with the shitty dull blade that she ruined on the practice armor of some Mandywood spawn. The pain in her arms is ignorable in comparison to the ache in her chest so she stabs and slices and severes, imagining it is the traitorous snake who tried to sell her to the Braavosi courts, apparently not believing their disdain for slavery what with its prominence in the rest of the continent. 

 

He squealed like a pig when the First sword of Braavos stuck his blade in him, but she savored the sound of the wretch she made bleed out more so. He was stupid enough to attempt to sample the goods and forgot that young cobras are more dangerous for their lack of control.

 

Nymeria swings the blade at an upward angle, pretending to tear through an armpit, when it jams into the wood hard enough to make her bones rattle. She whimpers, dropping the blade and cradling her hand to her chest. 

 

Oberyn does not swarm her with an embrace though he is close now, knelt on her right side, with one arm poised to steady her. His image is a blurry blend of reds and browns and Nymeria wishes vehemently for him to  _ go away _ but her disloyal tongue is already speaking.

 

“Why’d you leave, Obie?” She asks in a broken whisper, knowing the question would wrench her brother’s heart, but unable to stop herself from voicing the sentence that haunted her. “They wouldn’t have-  _ nothing _ would have happened had you stayed.”

 

He pulls her to him then, arms like steel bands and chest quaking with suppressed emotion. “I didn’t know, baby girl. I would never have left you there had I known. It will  _ never  _ happen again,” He swears it, on the blood in their veins and the legacy of their family. His voice is deadly and vengeful and Nymeria shouldn’t be reassured by the wrath that sits in his heart, the unspoken promise that he would find those who conspired to taint her in such a way and give them an  _ agonizing  _ existence until their hearts collapsed from the strain of their suffering. 

 

“I missed you, Obie.” She sniffles, and digs her face into the supple leather on his shoulder. Oberyn smells like the desert and the blood orange he had for breakfast. He smells of weapons oil with the tang of hellebore and Nymeria cries all the harder for having him again.

 

He cradles her to to him tighter. “I missed you too, little fox. Know I love you.  _ We _ love you, so much, Nymeria, and you were meant to be here.”

 

“Promise you won’t send me off again.” Her fingers dig into his cloth covered arms like knives and Oberyn chokes a little at her fierceness. “Promise me!”

 

He doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t speak to Doran for three sennight. 

 

Dinners are taken in the library or Oberyn’s rooms and Nymeria turns aside any attempts to speak with her. She ignores the letter from Elia and refuses to go to the watergardens when it is suggested. She is not a child and though that  _ man _ failed to rape her she doesn’t feel like forgetting what happened to her in the serenity of their family’s oasis.

 

Nymeria tells Oberyn the truth about her four years in Essos. How the first year she spent with him had been wonderful but once her brother departed, she grew homesick and eager to return. She told him how the Martell guard who was sworn to their House suggested visiting Pentos and how they were ambushed on the roads, betrayed by one of the Braavosi merchants they relied on for travel and the guard whom she knew since birth. She spares no detail when she describes being forced on a ship, half her travel party killed or chained and only surviving because the Slaver was too greedy to head to Slaver’s bay and wished to obtain more stock. She let him know the First Sword of Braavos was sent to collect them and how she was taken into the Sealord’s home and provided for while the Dornish culled their ranks and purged any more traitors. 

 

Oberyn was livid that none of their people wrote to them, informed them of the near tragedy that occurred, but Nymeria is in no mood to entertain this. 

 

“They fought for me, nearly died for me, Oberyn. When I tell them to allow me to inform my family of our misadventures, they obey. Don’t you  _ dare _ punish them for their loyalty to me when I had no one else to rely on. Don’t you dare hurt them for heeding their princess.”

 

That won’t be the end of it, Nymeria is sure, which is why she brought only those who could no longer stand the Braavosi lifestyle back with her. She sent them to the different houses in Dorne to find their peace the moment they reached shore and she will not inform Oberyn of their locations. She loves her brother, with everything she has, but he can be mindless in his anger and he would take his rage out on parties who don’t deserve it. 

 

It takes him many hours of sparring and much wine before he calms enough to drag her to his chest and hug her like one would a treasure. “You’ve grown so much, little fox. I hardly recognized you when you stalked off the ship.”

 

“I do not  _ stalk. _ ” She denies with a pout, playing with the collar of her brother’s shirt as he presses his nose to her hair and  _ breathes. _

 

“It was quite intimidating, like mother in miniature form.”

 

She pinches the underside of his arm hard enough to make him yelp. “Now you’re just making fun.”

 

His grin is easily felt against her brow as he presses a kiss. “Of course I am. I’ve missed out on  _ years  _  of teasing. I must make up for it.”

 

“Obie!” She shrieks as he rolls and tickles her sides without mercy. Her laughter is highpitched and mortifying but it is the happiest she can ever remember being bar their travels north to find Elia a husband. Oberyn does not yield until Nym is gasping weakly on the bed.

 

Cheeks flushed and sore from laughing so hard Nymeria scoots away from her brother and hugs a pillow to her chest as a barrier once he lets her free. She scowls at him only harder when he chuckles at her indignant sulking.

 

She should have known her good mood would not last.

 

“Doran has missed you, as has Elia.” Nym pushes her chin into the pillow and glowers at him over the lip. “She’s written to me twice asking how you are, apparently you’ve not answered her letters since your arrival, let alone for over a year before you returned to us.” Nymeria says nothing. “You know they missed you.” Oberyn continues softly. “Doran feels as much fault as I do for what happened, Nym.” His near black eyes darken. “The only one of us not to tour the Free Cities is Elia, and that is only due to her crippling seasickness. It is tradition-”

 

“What does it matter?” Nymeria sounds petulant but she doesn’t care. “I’m back now. It’s already happened. I’ve moved on, so should they.”

 

“Have you?” Oberyn asks shrewdly and Nymeria turns away in answer. “The Queen is with child, and there will be a Tourney in the babe’s honor before the year is done. Would you come with me to see Elia?”

 

Nymeria  _ doesn’t  _ want to see her sister. Doesn’t want to deal with a face that reminds her so of her mother without the steel spine. But where her mother was fierce, Elia had always been kind and she supposes she missed her too.

 

“Fine.”

 

It’s reluctant, but Oberyn beams at her to make up for the lack of enthusiasm. “And tonight, we’ll have dinner with Doran.”

 

“What?! No!”

 

“Excellent!”

 


	2. Lannisport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you an idiot?!” He flinches a bit at her snarled accusation but the boy’s chagrin only lasts the span of a heartbeat.
> 
> His chin lifts defiantly as he says, “You were ignoring me.”
> 
> Nymeria stares at him. “You are, aren’t you? Mother of Mors, I knew Northerners were stupid but-”
> 
> Teeth clack together hard and Nymeria has to remind herself that they are guests of the Lannisters of Lannisport and she couldn’t kill one of their potential spawn.
> 
> Keeping her voice level, Nymeria mimickes a tone Doran used on Oberyn often. “One does not attempt to play when live steel is in hand.”
> 
> The boy has the nerve to scoff. “You can’t hurt me.”
> 
> Nymeria looks down at this golden haired child, mind disturbingly blank, and expression considering... 
> 
> She stabs him in the thigh.

The journey to Lannisport is the kind of adventure Nymeria once yearned for at the feet of her brother.

They woke with the sun and only pitched camp once the horses grew weary. Once Nymeria would have loved traversing neighboring lands, chasing down bandits and nights under a starlit sky with nothing but a blanket and balled up bag for bedding. She enjoys it, far more than anyone sane should bar the aches from the saddle, but their destination -the meaning behind it- sours the adventurer within.

Nymeria does not wish to be thrown into the politics of Westeros and that’s what this is: the Martells showing they are not insular lords who ignore the going-ons in the world. Nymeria wouldn’t mind this if their reintroduction didn’t center around  meeting the royal family.

Doran would be wrot with her if she acts the petulant child and she had no wish to see the disappointment that would more than likely color her kindly sister’s face, but she had no love for Queen Rhaella’s husband. The foggy memories of her toddlerhood left a strong impression of distaste in regards to their King and Nym knows herself well enough to want to limit time around him. Nym would have done better for the family sitting with Doran and learning of the changes in Dorne. Oberyn is enough of a representation of their house, probably the most impressive of their land outside of Arthur Dayne if she were to be honest. 

If Elia wasn’t travelling, Nymeria would have fought tooth and nail to say in Dorne.

 What was Doran playing at? Her own countrymen have yet to see her as anything other than a three foot leech, why would Doran send her _here_ when she could be getting acquainted with their bannermen _?_ The ravenette had no illusions on the worth of her hand. It only made sense for House Martell to reward their bannerman's loyalty with marriage. Doran didn’t bother entertaining the notion of Oberyn settling for one person, let alone marriage, and her eldest brother lucked out to wed for love in his travels.

Fact of the matter is, this left Nymeria and Elia to carry the burden of politically beneficial matches. 

She also worries they may not make it back for the birth of her first niece or nephew. The thought of being responsible, no matter how distantly, for another life makes her nauseous. But, it also makes her hum and dance, talking at Mellario’s swelling belly like the babe is already here. It’s strange. She wishes to have someone to teach and entertain as her mother did her, but she’s also terrified that something will happen once the babe is born. Her mother nearly didn’t make it during Nymeria’s birth. She was well past the age for childbearing but the Dornish do not believe in accidental children. All lives are made from passion and they should be cherished. She could tell Mellario was unused to such enthusiasm and probably only tolerated Nym’s antics because it made Doran smile.

The Norvoshi noblewoman is queenly, beautiful, and intelligent. Nym can see why Doran fell for her in the way the woman can draw a person into her rhythm and keep them singing to it. It is disturbingly similar to their late mother if you ignore the woman’s lack of interest in literature and Dornish customs. Nymeria is still reserving judgement. Her freedom to pet and coo at the bemused woman’s belly probably contributes to this, but she can’t tell if the woman loves Doran for who he is instead of _what._ Their mother was alive when they met and married so Doran was free to attend to his wife as she was used to. After her death, Doran had to put his duty before his love and Nym sensed a strain on their interactions.

For that, she supposes she’s grateful to be on the road. It is so different from traveling with mother, she can’t even compare.

Oberyn is like a child, easily distracted and lusting for excitement. He chooses paths rarely taken and often difficult to traverse. Avoiding Yronwood is a must for obvious reasons, but past crossing the Sea of Dorne and continuing up the Serpent’s Tail which cuts the Stormlands, it's vaguely directed wandering with the goal of pissing off as many Reachmen they can.

The Dornish take detour after detour, carelessly prowling through Reach lands. If anyone stops them to complain, Oberyn presents the royal invitation to the Tourney with a taunting smile and flounces about his way. It’d be maddening if she didn’t find it so hilarious.

Their party could have joined the Kingsroad to the Goldroad and straight to the Lannister naval yard once they left the barge. A trek that lasts nearly a month on its own is doubled with her brother’s flighty attention span. They’d already meandered their way from Wanderling to spend four days scoring the the ruins of Summerhall. From there, North to Felwood of House Fell, West to the misfortunate House Footly of Tumbleton and now finally entering the Westerlands towards Deep Den.

Honestly, she should never have expected Oberyn to abide so forward a path.

“You’ve not travelled these lands since you were a tot, sweet sister. I must show you a little of the between.” Her elder brother had declared, his mare knickering as if in agreement. “And when we return, I shall take you on a tour amongst our bannermen. It’s been too long since they’ve seen your cherub face.”

If they didn’t have such a limited party, Nymeria is sure they would have left the moment she returned from Braavos. As it is, the tourney wasn’t for another 43 days and she already knew they would get there _just_ at its start.

Nymeria only smiles at his flamboyant nature. “I don’t think I’ve missed much, Obie.”

He scoffs and goes on about how she missed the Fat flower growing into even more of an Oaf and how Tully is as conniving as ever. “And the Starks! The Starks are fostering outside the north, Nym. I was speechless when I heard tale of it. How those frozen bastards survive outside their winter wasteland, I’ll never know.”

Nymeria swats her brother in the chest, or tries to. Her mount, Tafiti, decides to go right instead of left and checks out the stretch of grass growing at their feet. She curses at him, but it's more fondness than true anger because he’d gone three whole days without ignoring her wishes and progress was to be rewarded.

A grullo coat Sand Steed, Tafiti was gifted to her as a late eighth birthday present. He is young and fierce but has taken to the Princess better than the brood of Oberyn’s own bay colored mare. Her stallion is stubborn. Gorgeous. A dusty grey colors his back which darkens as you move from his torso until the hair is coal black along the hooves and snout. His mane is like spilled ink against his back and she loves every hardheaded part of him. It takes Nymeria three months of steady work to get him to _occasionally_ heed her and she will not rest until he bows to her whims because she will _not_ suffer her brother’s teasing every time Tafiti wonders off, ignoring her direction.

Like he’s doing right now.

Nymeria scowls at her brother, allows Tafiti his slight rebellion before tugging the reins and urging him to a canter to catch up. The horse obliges, reluctantly, and she is sure to give him a slice of the apple she was paring in reward. His steps get more energetic after that.

Her eye only twitches a bit at the bearded Martell’s amused expression.

Clearing her throat pointedly, Nymeria casts her gaze about the hilly fields and gauges six more hours of sunlight. “We are near Silverhill are we not? It belongs to House Serrett, bannermen to the Lannisters?”

Royn Allyrion answers her with a smile, black mount a good hand and a half larger than her own. “That is correct, Princess. House Serrett is a loyal and fastidious house that has held favor with it’s liege lords for one thousand years. Their coat is a peacock in pride on a cream field. Do you know their words, your grace?”

“I have no rival.” Nymeria returns absently already bored of the conversation.

Allyrion joined them when they passed Godsgrace and while a comely and friendly man, his eagerness to get to know Nymeria grates. She probably wouldn’t have felt this way if she was raised with his personality and she knows Oberyn favors the man over their other bannerman but she can’t find it in herself to take to him. She was sure he noticed, Nymeria is not subtle in her snubs, but he is dogged in his determination to befriend her.

It’s almost endearing. Almost.

Perhaps taking pity on his friend, Oberyn speaks up. “We’ll share in their hospitality before riding hard for Deep Den. The royal family departed around the same time we did so we should arrive a fortnight ahead.”

Shuddering, Nymeria does not envy the ponderous pace of the Royal family. Gods, she nearly lost her mind when she was stuck in a carriage for the stretch between Sunspear and the Water Gardens, a three day ride if you **_drag_ ** ass. She’d rather get to their temporary home now and explore the castle while they waited for the main party to catch up.

Deciding to take a page out of her brother’s book, Nymeria kicks into Tafiti’s sides hard and they burst into a gallop, climbing the rolling hill in steady strides. “Race you there!”

She hears Oberyn charge with an offended shout, followed shortly by the small entourage of twenty rushing after them with cries of dismay. The loudest cries stemming from the pair lugging their chests.

Times like these, it’s easy to see why Oberyn enjoys keeping them on their toes.

 

* * *

 

 

Hair brushed until it shined and braided to coil about her head in a crown, Nymeria stands at her brother’s side and tries to keep from tugging on her dress anxiously.

Meeting the King should be far less nerve wracking than mustering up the will to apologize to her sister. They’re late by days and she tries to recall helpful knowledge to keep her mind occupied.

She remembers the Queen to be stunning, in a severe and sad way. She seemed to carry the world on her shoulders with no escape in sight, but it was a duty she was determined to perform and perform well. Her eyes were a dark amethyst compared to her husband’s lighter shade and it seemed she only smiled when with her son or with Nymeria’s mother. The two were like an inverted mirror of one another: coal against silver, milky skin against nutty brown, reserved where the other was spirited. Nymeria often wondered what the two princesses were like with the third piece to their triumvirate.

The Queen was striking in Nymeria’s memory but the King was memorable in another way. Thin and sour faced, he never seemed to be pleased with anyone in his presence. Its puzzling that she can pull forth so many remarkable features of the Silver Queen but can barely dredge up the eye color of the most influential man on the continent.

The youngest Martell remembers her mother saying Areys was not always this way but when Nymeria is reintroduced to the King, curtsying in a dress fit for a queen, she can only think if he **_had_ ** been a different man, he has only continued to grow into the worst sort.

Suspicious amethyst eyes scan the Dornish party and he does not direct them to stand as he scrutinizes them one by one. Nym’s knees are starting to ache when the man pauses in front of her with something like surprise.

“You, girl, you’re that Dornish _princess’s_ youngest, aren’t you?” There is scorn in his voice and Oberyn only shoots her a warning look as the King gestures impatiently for her to rise.

“Yes, King Aerys,” She answers respectfully. She will never say your grace if she can help it. There is nothing _graceful_ about this man and he seems more unhinged than when last they met.

“Name?” He demands. Another person moves behind the king as if to intervene but a man in a white cape holds him back.

“Nymeria Martell.”

He hums and tilts his head to the side. It is an intense stare that makes her feel as if he is weighing her against something in his mind. She holds his gaze, curious more than concerned with his attentions. Nym had never taken more care with her appearance and there was nothing he could say to find her wanting, she’s sure.

The pause stretches past uncomfortable to the point where Nym idly wonders if they were having a staring contest. The thought is so asinine that Nym’s lips quirk without her permission. When the King’s hand lashes out, lengthy claws grasping her face more than the pads of his fingers, Nymeria goes very, _very_ still to keep from reacting poorly to the intrusion.

“Pity how that woman whelped four sons when my wife struggles to give me two.” He begins, voice distantly interested as he turns her head side to side. “Even managed to spawn girls.” The King’s expression darkens alarmingly for all of a heartbeat, his nails dig into her cheeks and Nymeria’s fists slowly tighten against her dress at his audacity as he concludes with, “She’s dead now though, so I suppose Rhealla needn’t worry about competing anymore.”  

Nym’s knives are reassuring weights against her thigh and it is that which keeps her voice from wavering as she limits her response to the first part of his unwanted speech. “Congratulations on your second son. Mother said all children are a gift and she would be pleased to know Queen Rhaella has had another.” her voice is inflectionless, mahogany eyes flat like a viper’s. The child in her demands Oberyn stop this man from touching her before she cuts off his hand and dooms their fate, but the warrior… she twists her slightly puckered lips into a Martell smile.

Aerys blinks at her, eyes narrowing as if attempting to read the odd response to his baiting.

“You look like her.” He proclaims after an unsettling pause. “More so than the other girl pandering to my Queen.” This is stated with a queer inflection. “Rhealla will be beside herself when she realizes she missed seeing her dear friend’s spitting image. I, " He sneers. "could have done without.”

At that he drops her face and sweeps past, ignoring the rest of the delegation. The silence following is awkward. They can hear him insulting whatever party stands next to greet him and still they were not given leave to straighten. Nymeria cannot see how her mother could ever have spoken admiringly of the beast who touched her skin.

A tall man of silver hair takes Areys’s place and it takes a long moment of breathing through her fury to realize it is Prince Rhaegar. Where his father is disconcerting thin, Rhaegar's frame is trim but healthy. His smile makes many a maiden swoon and the one he gifted her with may have done the same if she wasn’t biting her tongue hard enough to fill her mouth with blood.

The Dornish party rises at the Prince’s urging and Oberyn comes to her side immediately with a kiss on her brow. He’s trembling, likely twice as livid because he had to _watch_ their interaction. Had he not put an arm around her back to tuck her against him she wouldn’t have known.

 Nymeria swallows the blood and saliva coating her mouth with difficulty, hardly catching the end of the Prince’s words.

 “-apologize for my father’s manners. Viserys is a gift we prayed for and feared would not be granted. I hope he hasn’t scared-”

 “Your mother isn’t coming.” Nymeria hears herself interrupt, finally realizing why the King’s words had bothered her so much outside of the disrespect.

 “Princess!”

 “Nym.” Oberyn sighs out, long and slow. His anger pressed down and all but forgotten to address her impropriety.  A distant corner of her mind knows this was Doran’s intention in having Oberyn responsible for her. He would control his rage to keep her safe, force her to behave if only to keep himself distracted until he could rage away from prying eyes.

 Nymeria, understandably, does not appreciate this.

 She especially doesn’t care about being rude. Nym minded her tongue around the prickly King as she was bid but the whole _point_ of her coming to this godforsaken place was to see her sister! If the Queen did not travel with the King, then her sister remains behind in King’s landing.

 She pulls away from her brother, irrationally a little hurt he did nothing to defend her.

“Don’t Nym, me.” Nymeria snaps, infuriated that she will be expected to spend an unacceptable amount of time around a man who seemed to despise his own distant kin. “I came here for my sister. Elia isn’t coming so long as the Queen is caged in King’s Landing. Why do I have to-”

“Nymeria, ENOUGH!”

She recoils from the reprimand, tears welling in her eyes and she has to pinch herself to distract from the urge to cry. Oberyn rarely yells at her. For him to do so in public meant she crossed a line or his temper was not so well buried.

It galls her, but she recalls her manners and steady her trembling lip. “Forgive me, my Prince, the journey has made me ill tempered. If you’ll excuse me,” She curtsy to both Heirs and turns away without being dismissed. It’s insolent but she knows Rhaegar well enough to not take offense for such a thing and she does not want to hear any more of his empty condolences about his father. She is young, but she knows when someone means what they say and Aerys meant for every word to upset.

Nymeria avoids all as she heads back to groom Tafiti in the stables. The horse is unimpressed with her sulking and nips at her for lackluster brushing. His irritable mood manages to brighten hers somewhat though she is displeased with her immediate future. A real apology to Oberyn would be in order for embarrassing him in front of the Prince. She knows he was not truly offended by what she said, but he has an image to maintain and Nymeria played right into spoilt child by losing her calm.

Rhaegar could suck a lemon. He’s just as bad as Aerys for allowing his father to act so out of hand. The man was like an ill tempered child who needed to be distracted. Rhaegar was Elia’s age, she managed to find ways to detract their siblings, why couldn’t he do this with his father?

The youngest Princess of Dorne wouldn’t waste her breath apologizing to him when her efforts will be directed to keep from attacking the King should his cheery demeanor continue for the entirety of this visit.

Already exhausted, Nymeria presses her face against Tafiti’s side and prays for patience. It would be tread upon far too often in the coming days.

 

* * *

 

Nymeria is shaking with fury as she jerks her feet into a pair of breeches and viciously lace them shut. Her boots are forced on with equal enmity and she has nothing but venomous, malevolent thoughts in her mind as she ties a half sleeved shirt tight.

Hands bypass the throwing blades normally seeded throughout her person to snatch up her Braavosi blade. She’s too enraged for the peace of mind needed to be accurate and craves the satisfaction of feeling her sword hit, stab and slice.

_Repeatedly._

Nym hadn’t appreciated the gift at first- A gift from the Sealord for one of his citizens screwing them over- so she was reluctant to accept. Nymeria had never held any blade longer than a dagger in Dorne aside from that time Oberyn was drunk and made her promise to never mention to Elia. The lessons with what grew to be her now favored weapon are cherished and will be utilized as long as she drew breath.

She smiles darkly at the Sealord’s sigil.

And, the repetition would force her mind to cool into an icy malice.

Her prediction of Aerys's continued baiting proved true.

He insulted their Dornish ways despite the same blood running through his veins and crows unflattering commentary of the Late Dornish Princess whenever the Dornish compliment came in sight. At times, he spiced up the interactions by offered backhanded compliments. That he offered a compliment at all was apparently rare but she Did. Not. Care.

Nymeria fought down the resentment as the King _graciously_ announced his preference for her over Elia since her sister was ‘too timid’ to meet his eyes with any defiance. That Elia’s hair was her strongest feature but would never surpass the silver beauty exclusive to the Targaryen line. That Nymeria should be grateful House Martell seemed to be fertile, it was the sole redeeming quality of their line-

It went on and _on_ and **on** until Nymeria could scream herself hoarse in impotent fury. Thinking of the scores of people who sat there and tittered at his rudeness only made her hate Northerners more. Her hostility was getting harder and harder to repress but that **_sick_ ** asshole kept requesting her presence, like he could sense her slow descent into reckless acrimony.

Doran always complained of Oberyn’s thoughtless fury but their mother was much the same with those who threatened any she cared for. The Martell children are in every way their parent’s legacy. Doran has their father’s cold fury, glacial in its movement but devastating once disturbed. Oberyn’s rage was mother’s born again; like wildfire: volatile and dangerous to friend and foe alike. No matter what her brothers may think, Nymeria’s wrath lacked Doran’s patience **_and_ ** Oberyn’s indiscriminate disregard for consequences. Her curse is that her ire is _focused_ and impossible to forgive. She would hate Aerys Targaryen long past when his ashes are scattered on the wind and his memory forgotten.

Hair tucked between her undershirt and her outer layer, Nymeria stomps out her tent and makes a sharp dismissing gesture to the guard stationed outside her flap. She doesn’t want an audience and hopes the ratty hat Allyrion parted with will do well in making her look like a squire or unassuming page. It’s why she chooses to go to the practice yard on the opposite side of the castle away from the main events.

She’s moving about the castle some time before dawn and the Archery competition would begin an hour following. At midday, the third day of Jousts would charge on and Nym intended to use the entirety of her stolen time to work out her aggression. If that stupid king asked for her, Obie could say she was ill. The raven haired girl has no intention to clap and prattle in the stands for anyone outside her countryman and Allyrion and Oberyn wouldn’t be competing until tomorrow. Arthur Dayne would make it to the Semi-finals of the Joust and those weren’t scheduled for _twelve_ whole days. This entire experience only reinforced her disdain for tourneys and the man they seemed to honor.

 _Areys_ **_would_ ** _die._ An outraged corner of her mind swore. _It is but a matter of time after all and, checking the scars along his arms, the chair would do it for her should she be so lucky._ This fact gave her the serenity to act as if she wasn’t spitting mad. That and the knowledge that in three weeks time she would probably not see him again until his funeral. Not that she’d go but to celebrate.

 _All future sibling reunions require Elia come to_ **Dorne** _. I will not step foot into King’s landing with that bastard on the throne-_

Nymeria shakes her head to quell the dangerous thoughts and decides violence is precisely the remedy she needs.

As she arrives at the posts, the sun now lighting the sky in a blush, Nym hangs her sword along the wooden dummy furthest in the yard and begins to stretch in preparation for her warm up jog.

By the time the sky is a welcoming shade of azure, Nymeria is covered in sweat and only a third of the way into her routine. The humidity in the West is awful compared to the Dornish coast and she feels like she’s breathing through a wet rag. This unexpected difficulty only makes her work harder since it reminds her vividly of the Braavosi sea. It doesn’t bother her as much as it would had she spent most of her life in Dorne.

In her element, Nymeria leaps into a downward slash, feet flying over the ground as she dodges the retaliating strike of her imaginary opponent. She backs into a handspring with a grunt and she dips into a whip like bend once she lands, sword ending in a punishing strike to the throat.

“The practice yard is for fighting. If you can only dance, I suggest you head elsewhere.”

Nymeria spins immediately, reaching for the blade at the small of her back when the unwelcome voice interrupts her. She grasps at nothing and scowls fiercely as she recalls her decision to leave her hidden weapons behind. Her single minded desire to pour her energy into swordplay is a bit of a regret right now.

Though.... seeing that she nearly proliferated the idiotic blond that snuck up on her, it’s probably for the best.

Adrenaline easing out of her system, Nym passed a quick glance over her sudden companion. The boy is older than her, but not by much, with short golden blond hair and cat green eyes. His clothes are wealthy, trimmed in gold with glinting buttons and Nymeria has the irrational urge to spit at his feet.

Some Westerland noble’s get. He’s probably never seen a drop of blood outside a skinned knee and battled nothing but other padded, privileged boys in this very yard.

_You know better than to judge him in such a way, Nym. Go on with your drills, he’ll leave you be if you ignore him._

Taking a breath and slowly straightening from her crouch, Nymeria plays back the boy’s words before snorting and turning away. “If you can’t tell the difference, that’s not _my_ problem.”

Idiot Northern boy.

She sighs and sinks back into herself, eyes closing and feet sliding apart into an opening stance. Nymeria makes it through three maneuvers before the voice is back.

“Who do you squire for? It can’t be a Westerlander.”

She doesn’t respond and continues into the seventh stance when his voice sounds closer to her corner of the yard.

“Are you ignoring me?” He sounds bemused, like such a thing has never happened before.

“Brilliant deduction.” Nym dryly returns, biting back a nastier reply.

_Take a hint._

Silence. It’s a relief so Nym compresses her awareness to her immediate area, envision her Water style teacher across from her with his aggravating smile.

Her peace lasts for a handful of breaths before something make her slide to the right. Nym’s foot lashes out, tripping whoever attacked her and she tilts her blade to stab down just as she registers the wide eyed astonishment of the blond ingrate from earlier.

“Are you an _idiot?!_ ” He flinches a bit at her snarled accusation but the boy’s chagrin only lasts the span of a heartbeat.

His chin lifts defiantly as he says, “You were ignoring me.”

Nymeria stares at him. “You are, aren’t you? Mother of Mors, I knew Northerners were stupid but-”

Teeth clack together hard and Nymeria has to remind herself that they are guests of the Lannisters of Lannisport and she couldn’t kill one of their potential spawn.

Keeping her voice level, Nymeria mimicked a tone Doran used on Oberyn often. “One does not attempt to _play_ when live steel is in hand.”

The boy has the nerve to _scoff_. “You can’t hurt me.”

Nymeria looks down at this golden haired child,  mind disturbingly blank, and expression considering...

She stabs him in the thigh.

The boy yelps, hands clamping down on the shallow wound. He’s fine, she only pushed hard enough to draw blood- she wasn’t that annoyed- though the gobsmacked expression on the little prick’s face is lightening her mood considerably.

“Look at that,” Nymeria says in feigned shock. “Seems I can.”

His cheeks redden and Nym is disgracefully pleased with the level of outrage she manages to garner. “How _dare_ you cut me! You can’t attack a Lan-”

She jabs him again, in the shoulder this time, drawing a squeak. “I believe we just demonstrated, yet again, that I can, Northerner.”

She probably shouldn’t, but the chastising murmers in the back of her mind are easily ignorable. If he sputters any longer, she’d do it again just to shut him up.

Nym twitches her sword arm when the boy starts swearing something about his family and grins when he quiets immediately.

“Good, you’re trainable. Not as stupid as I thought.”

The kid’s face is probably a mirror of Nymeria’s after her last bonding session with the Scab King so she decides she’s had enough fun. Nym steps backwards, watching her more than likely sworn enemy carefully until she is back at the post holding her scabbard.

“As much fun as it is teaching you to heel, I’d rather not waste my time any longer than I already have.”

She had hoped the area would be clear for a few more hours still. It’s aggravating that the only solace she’s managed to find in this place is taken from her by a spoilt brat.

The boy is on his feet as soon as Nym’s outside of lunging range and she’s mildly impressed at the speed he manages to right himself. His face promises pain for whatever embarrassment he thinks she’s inflicted upon him and his voice is a growl, “You wouldn’t be so confident if I had a blade as well.”

Nym rolls her eyes and slides her thin blade into its sheath. “I’d feel more confident if you had steel, I take no pleasure from bullying children.”

“I’m no more a child than you!”

“Do you always react so well to being unattended, your highness? My mother once said it's a common trait for toddlers.”

He flushes bad enough for it to color his ears. “All I hear is talk. We’ll see who the child is when I make you cry at my feet!”

Nymeria adopts a pitying expression she knows will goad him further. “Be grateful all I choose to give you is a few pokes and a tongue lashing. Walk away, Northerner. I haven’t the time to play.”

“Say that after I beat your uncivilized _Dornish_ ass.” He returns with a superior smirk.

The Princess snorts. He’s adamant if anything. She’d be doing his ego a disservice by not pummeling it into the ground.

Interested now, Nym cocks her head to the side and considers. She really didn’t want to go back to the tourney and practice with someone her height was nonexistent in Dorne. Doran forbid fighting in the Water Gardens and no children resided in the castle. He had _some_ training, else he wouldn’t be so confident in his assured victory after she dodged his lackluster lunge. Why not stomp all over his pride and get some practice in as well? She could handicap herself with one of the heavier blunted blades to work on her strength.

“Alright,” Nym agrees easily. “Best of three?”

“Think you’ll have a better chance then?” The boy sneers, though her acceptance draws a bit of the ire out of his tone.

Nymeria walks to the weapons shed and tugs her borrowed cap against her head a little more firmly. “Hardly, I can’t get much training done if it’s only one match.” She pulls blunted blades from the rack and chooses the bastard blade with the best balance.

The blond mulls over the condition for a moment. He nods and stalks to the rack close enough to nearly touch. The proximity makes Nymeria tense. “Best of five then.” When he only moves past her to select his own choice, she lets out a silent breath and berates herself for reacting. Nice to know she wasn’t the only one aching for practice with someone near her age.

They exit the weapon holding area and Nymeria idly notes he’s nearly a head taller than her. That said, she’s surprised his choice is a longsword. The reach would be a hassle for her but, the weight of the blade had to be a bit much with his scrawny arms. Mayhaps he was working on his strength as well.

She is pleased to note he holds a sword like he knew what he was doing.

The Princess shifts her grip on the borrowed blade and bows her head in acceptance. A smile tugs at her lips and Nymeria has to bite her lip to quell it. “Of five then.”

Despite herself, the Dornishwoman looks forward to the match.

\---------------------

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?


	3. Arthur Dayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking of skilled warriors. I’ve heard tale of you being gifted with a blade. Moreso than your brother at least.” He adds when Nymeria stares at his implication. 
> 
> A raven brow arches. “Crakehall’s squire met his match in a Dornishmen of a disrespectful nature. One who took no qualms in badmouthing his betters.”
> 
> Oberyn frowns briefly. “We’ve no squires in our party…” His trailed off sentence ends as he turns to Nymeria with a sharp look as she glares in the direction of the Crakehall banner.
> 
> “That idiot still thinks I’m a boy?!”

Nymeria sits at the feet of the most powerful men in Westeros for once excited for the day.

 It’s the Jousting semi finals with fourteen competitors left to vie for the title. Nearly a third of those remaining are Westerlanders. The coats of Lannister, Crakehall, Preston, Lydden, and Brax flutter weakly in the poor breeze.  A Frey managed to make it this far and Nymeria is impressed, equally so with the young Dornishman from House Uller who seemed to trip over himself every moment of their journey here. She is pleased to see her countrymen progress so far. Allyrion came in fourth at the melee, Oberyn of course sweeping away the competition. She worried briefly for her brother when he clashed swords with Ser Gerold Hightower, but her brother was faster, and not above using the environment to gain his win. Ser Gerold slipped on a slick of blooded soil giving Oberyn the much needed moment of advantage (after hurling a discarded gauntlet at the Kingsgaurd skull).

The crowd held mixed opinion of the tactic.

She, on the other hand, had never cheered louder in her life much to the ire of those surrounding her.

A gasp sounds on her left and the Dornish Princess sighs as she shifts her gaze to the most recent bane to her existence.

“It’s _Prince Rhaegar_!” the girl whispers annoyingly, voice ending in an adoring sigh that makes the younger girl roll her eyes.

“He is competing. Wouldn’t be much of a competitor if he doesn’t show.”

The older girl is too besotted to hear though her two companions give Nymeria twin looks of contempt. Nymeria pouts at being ignored by the object of her irritation. She’s taken an unhealthy amount of delight in riling Tywin Lannister’s only daughter and being denied her only source of entertainment is bothersome.

She flinches as the noise from the smallfolk grows _deafening,_ letting the Princess know the Heir to the Iron throne was finally spotted. Areys's welcome is pathetic in comparison while Tywin’s is only mildly embarrassing. The Prince is beloved in Westeros, by the smallfolk more than anyone and there is practically rioting in the path to the yard as the smallfolk strain to touch him. Men in Lannister colors keep back the tide, barely, but Rhaegar does not look worried at the potential danger. He smiles that enchanting smile, expression softly affectionate for even the most repulsive cur. Nymeria may not like him for his passive nature when it comes to his father’s curdling personality, but he cuts a stunning picture in his black, ruby encrusted armor.

The Prince heads toward's the King’s booth, making her reluctant companions squeal before composing themselves in impressive time. Nym feels her lips pull in smile of her own when she recognizes his companion.

“Father, Lord Hand.” the Prince greets with a deep nod while Sir Arthur Dayne echos welcome at his side.

The girl, Cersei, stands immediately once the two knights have reached a reasonable distance and Nymeria for once doesn’t mind in joining her to curtsy as the two men pull up alongside them. Rhaegar’s eyes are like violets as he smiles up at them, two heads shorter even on his tall Drestrier. Long faced, and yet still so unnervingly handsome, Rhaegar’s silver hair is pulled in a loose braid and glints like metal in the sunlight. Nymeria can appreciate his beauty and his kindly nature which seems to be the only thing he inherited from his mother. She shudders to think of an Aerys with Rhaegar’s looks but Rhaella did not give her son beauty. It had to have come from somewhere.

Where Rhaegar’s features are silver and pale, Ser Arthur Dayne’s is all olive skin and jet black hair. He is taller than Rhaegar by a hand and garbed in shining plated armor and a snow white coat. Nymeria met him once, when she was hardly up to his knees and she can’t help but hope he remembers.

“You’re late, boy.” Is the King’s expected response. Tywin Lannister’s gold flecked green eyes warm slightly when they fall upon the prince and he inclines his head as the King continues, “pandering to the smallfolk again I see. Basking in their attentions, hmm?”

There is an edge to his voice that makes the hairs on Nymeria’s neck stand up but Rhaegar is unaffected and only smiles at his sire. “Only feeding the love they have for our family, father. It is you that rules and you they thrive under.”

Nymeria arches a brow when the Prince glances at the Old lion and shoots the girls a wink. One of them titters but a trumpet blows, signalling a moment for the King to give his speech and likely saving the girl from a royal tongue lashing for being insipid. Areys had done it twice already when the young Lady Lannister’s handmaidens grew too enthused with the various Knights. That he keeps having to do it shows Nymeria that idiocy is rampant in this part of the country.

The King is particularly irritable today with the cloying atmosphere. Nym ignores him as able and grins a bit at the Dayne crest hung beside the Targaryen dragons. The petty soul in her cannot wait for Sir Arthur to win the whole of the jousts. None so far road with anything near his skill bar the Silver prince himself.

Nymeria allows the king’s voice to drone over her as she scans the crowd for the second highlight of this journey. She doesn’t see his wheat gold head, and tries not to be disappointed when the first of the lists begin.

Cersei huffs and fans herself absently, sharp green oddly familiar eyes pinned on the silver head standing at the South end of the yard. “I wish they’d ordered the matches differently. The Prince won’t ride until midday at this rate.”

“He’ll win no matter when he rides,” lickspittle number 2 boasts confidently. Nymeria doubts that but she knows better than to say it in hearing range of the Scab King. Ser Arthur would win, of that she had no doubt.

“I could do with him winning now if it’s all the same to you.” The blond who’s spoken is freckled and gangly but pretty in a fey way. Her hair is like beaten gold and plaited into a complicated knot that Nymeria silently admires out the corner of her eye. The Lannister cousin is sweating heavily in her red and white dress. Were Nymeria not of Dorne, she’d be drowning in this sweltering heat.

Cersei’s reply is aggrieved. “We didn’t have a moment to talk. Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Of course he’ll come back.” Three heads swivel to the Dornish Princess and for once, Nymeria doesn’t try to be belittling. “We’re sitting in the King’s booth. Once the lists are over his place is with the King.”

Cat green eyes regard her suspiciously but the possibility of sitting with the silver prince outweighs whatever enmity she’s built with the Southern Princess. “That would be perfect!” The golden beauty proclaims with a rather dazzling smile. If she wasn’t such a capricious cow, Nymeria wouldn’t begrudge men throwing themselves at her once she flowered. Alas, she only need open her mouth and any comparison to the Maid was quickly spoiled. “Of course, you will move when he returns. He must have room to seat himself.”

Nymeria snorts. Like that.

“Something to say, _Princess._ ”

And hadn’t that galled the girl when they were introduced! Nym hadn’t so much as offered a 'How do you do', before the little bint was turning her nose up and asking why she thought Nymeria had any right to talk to a Lannister of Casterly Rock. It reminded her sharply of the first meeting with her suddenly frequent sparring partner. Jaime is a _menace_ in all the ways that count but Nymeria found herself looking for him again and again even when they were not on the yard. That she continued to best him more than likely encouraged the fixation.

_Though that won’t last for much longer._

Oberyn is gifted with a sword, capable and deadly, but it is magical watching him work a spear. Jamie is much the same with a blade and Nymeria did not realize the prodigy she fell upon until she noticed the way he could master a maneuver through observation and intuition. He grows more familiar with her style every day and unlike the first match of 3 to 1 in her favor, it is more often draws than anything. Nymeria has not had such a handy win since that first day and she struggles to defeat him more as times pass. It’s absurdly unfair that over two years of relentless work in a foreign style is the only thing keeping her from buckling under his ability. She has no illusions of her prospective wins by the time the tourney draws to a close. She looks forward even less to the insufferable smugness Jamie will have once he can consistently knock her on her ass.

It’s damn motivating.

But Cersei is a different animal altogether. Jamie is often playful in his japes once you understand his brand of humor. Cersei aims to hurt or demean in everything she says. One would think she was Areys's daughter over the Lannister Hand’s.

Nymeria sends an amused glance Cersei’s way. “Merely thinking. I doubt you’d find the humor in it, Lady Cersei. We Dornish do hold strange tastes.”

Full lips thin at the subtle emphasis of her title. She opens her mouth only for the crash of lances splintering on metal to drown out her comment. Nymeria’s focus is back on the yard in an instant as the hedge knight of House Peak falls to the Lydden rider. Cersei claps as expected of her while Nymeria takes another moment to scan the crowd. Jaime said he couldn’t spar with her today due to the tilts but she was surprised that she had yet to see him. Why wasn’t he among the other blond haired, fair eyed Westerlanders littering the crowd?

Another two matches occur before she spots the familiar cut of amber holding out a lance for a Crakehall Knight.

“What’s got you so excited? You hate jousting.”

Nymeria jumps at Oberyn’s voice, coloring when her gaze flicks back unconsciously to the golden haired squire. “Nothing.” She answers quickly. “Where were you?”

Oberyn slides into the seat with a grin, dark eyes laughing. “Find something of interest, little fox?”

“Obie!” She hisses, refusing to look at the giggling girls at her back. Her brother dressed in his favored red silks, completely at ease in the heat and obviously just come from sating his hunger if the languid way he regarded the field was any indication. He offers the Westerland ladies sharing their row a gracious greeting, flirty enough to make the freckled one flush. Nym will give Cersei this, she handles her brother’s shameless flirting well and does not color like the two beside her.

Apparently willing to spare her more embarrassment, the Red Viper sets his attention to following the match. It’s the third tilt and Jaime’s Knight rides strong, lance striking square in the chest of his opponent. Nymeria feels a rare moment of nonfamilial concern over the Uller rider. His opponent was of House Crakehall. Oberyn tuts as the riders head back to their corners to gain new lances. The Uller boy is flagging, even Nymeria can tell. That last hit must have drove harder than he was prepared for.

“I suppose it’s another Westerland win.”

Nymeria starts to glare at her brother for the pessimistic thought, but he is right and not twenty seconds later is the boy bowled ass over end off his horse. Cersei is particularly vocal in celebrating this win, drawing a scowl from Nymeria and an amused glance from Nym’s elder brother. “Making friends I see.”

She swats his leg, attention on the raven haired knight donning a white cape. Ser Arthur unhorses the Preston rider in one hit, and Rhaegar does much the same to the Appleton man of the Reach as the last sets of riders hit the field for the first time in the day.  When Oberyn asks who the ladies think will ride for the crown, she surprises the prickly Lannister by agreeing with Cersei: the final joust will hold the Prince and his protector.

If Nym is slightly more excited to see one particular defeat over the other, she’s glad the King will be at her back for the matches.

* * *

 

Men jostle one another on the far side of the fields, voices a roar in between shattering wood. The stands are heavy with revellers and cheering fans and Nym’s taken by the energy in the stands despite her dislike of the event, so much so that when seven riders remain- her favored choice in the running- she’s grinning like the child she is.

She expects the pause between the next half of jousts. It’s been four hours of thundering horses, overindulgence in the spirits and heckling that’s made the most enthusiastic of the audience noticeably hoarse. With the sun high in the sky and an endless stream of smallfolk fighting for places amongst the edge, Nymeria is more surprised no one’s been hurt than the King deigning to head off and escape for the time he can. Tywin is called away for a different matter not long after, leaving the four girls to sit in not quite uncomfortable silence for a time.

It is broken, unsurprisingly by the returning Heir.

“Prince Rhaegar!” Cersei announces, pleased as punch when the Prince materializes at the stairs to the King’s booth in all his Silver glory. She rises to her feet gracefully and sweeps into a deep curtsy, golden hair shining in the sun like ribbons of metal made fine.

“Lady Cersei.” He greets with a small smile. His hand takes hers as she straightens and the prince bends to press his lips along her knuckles. “You grow more beautiful everyday, my Lady. Mother has expressed great interest in meeting you.”

Nymeria has to bite her lip to keep from chuckling when the girl beams, cheeks darkening to a flattering rose colored blush. The amusement doesn’t last long because a white cape lands on the back of her seat and Nymeria almost jumps out of her skin when the Sword of Mourning leans casually against the stand barrier at her back. “Ever the insolent Prince, eh Oberyn?”

She and her brother do not stand when the prince turns his attention to them at the comment. Nymeria probably wouldn’t have cared if it had offended him because Arthur Dayne is there, smirking at her capricious older brother like they’re long friends. “One does not distract a man from wooing a fair maiden, Arthur. I know you’ve lost the right to a woman’s touch but you can’t have forgotten the thrill of it.”

Cersei’s cohort flush and gasp in scandalized tones but Nymeria has heard far worse from her kin. She’s more shocked by the Dayne’s reply of: “I’ve been a pure maiden all my days, despite your efforts, Oberyn. Having to fight off advances from both sides dissuaded me from harassing women in the like long before I took my oath.” The knights tone is exaggeratedly prim and Nymeria is gaping at her brother who laughs and sighs fondly at the memory of it. 

“Can you blame me? Daynes are a pretty breed and your particular branch has refined the Valerian/Dornish blend to an exquisite product.” Here Oberyn leers and Nymeria can’t help but laugh at the mixed looks of disgust and intrigued wonder on the Westerland women beside her. “I’ve never tasted Dayne before. Must you continue to deny me, Arthur?”

“You’ve truly no shred of propriety, Obie.” Nymeria lets out once she’s caught her breath, leaning heavily into her unapologetic brother’s side. “Ser Arthur deserves more than a tumble in the hay so you may sate your goal of mounting your way across continent.”

The knight’s reply is swift. “Have I no place in your heart, my Prince?” Haunting violet eyes widen, the man stricken as his hand presses against his breastplate. “Only a conquest to claim?”

Oberyn’s smile is sinful. “You’d enjoy every second of it.”

“Must you act such a way in front of _the_ _Prince_?” Cersei snaps out, only to cover her mouth and beg apologies for not responding as a lady should. She needn’t have bothered because Rhaegar’s face is both amused and mildly exasperated. It speaks of long familiarity with their japes and Nymeria has to wonder how long the Martells and Targaryens of her generation have known each other. Nymeria cannot recall meeting the Prince outside of their journey north.

“Do not take their banter to heart, my lady. Prince Oberyn has always been this way.”

“Irresistibly charismatic.” Oberyn admits while Arthur dryly provides, “A man of a varied and voracious appetite.”

“Infuriatingly irrepressible.” The Prince finishes with a solemn air that makes the Dornish chuckle. When Oberyn starts a reply, the Prince shifts his attention back to the more than ready Lannister girl, who glows under his sight, oblivious or ignoring the offended noise the Dornish Heir puts out.

Nymeria wonders, looking at the green eyed beauty sighing over her silver prince, if this is what the love of stories is supposed to look like.

Amethyst eyes level on the young princess in her moment of bemused inspection and Nymeria _feels_ herself straighten at the attention. “Princess Nymeria, I doubt you remember but I’ve met you twice before. Once at your birth and another some years ago when you were toddling after this rapscallion here.”

Oberyn huffs under his breath and drapes himself in Nymeria’s chair causing her to step forward into the knight’s space or risk being nudged a little less gently out of the way. “I did not know of our first meeting but I remember the second. You knocked Oberyn off his feet every match after the first three.” The Dayne seats himself on the arm of her brother’s vacated chair and smiles wide enough for his dimples to show.

“I doubt Oberyn cares to remember it this way. His strength lies in a spear. I’d have trouble besting him with it if I could at all.”

Nymeria considers this. Regardless of the victor, it would be a match to see. She says as much and the tall knight laughs, Obie snorting behind her. “Such could be arranged, Princess.” Ser Arthur leans forward conspiratorially. “It’s been some time since I’ve tested myself against a skilled spearman. You think I’ve a chance?”

“There is always a chance.” Oberyn taught her those words the first day she wielded a dagger, pudgy faced and clumsy. All one had to do was make each strike count.

Something flashes in his purple gaze, appraising and sly. “Speaking of skilled warriors. I’ve heard tale of you being gifted with a blade. Moreso than your brother at least.” He adds when Nymeria stares at his implication.

She shoots Oberyn a questioning look but her brother is now fully listening to the conversation instead of splitting his attention between the two groups conversing in the stands. His dark eyes are intense as his tone curls around her with dangerous curiosity. “Twasn’t I, little sister. I’ve yet to get this one alone to even hint of such things though I wonder Ser Arthur’s source. Do share, Kingsgaurd.”

A raven brow arches at the comment. “Crakehall’s squire met his match in a Dornishmen of a disrespectful nature. One who took no qualms in badmouthing his betters.”

Oberyn frowns briefly. “We’ve no squires in our party…” His trailed off sentence ends as he turns to Nymeria with a sharp look as she glares in the direction of the Crakehall banner.

“That idiot _still_ thinks I’m a boy?!” Nymeria fumed.

She may dress boyish to keep the bigoted Northerners from interrupting her every time she headed to the practice yard, but she made no effort to change her speech or alter her behavior. She’s just as much a female on the yard as she is in her silks and leathers.

Oberyn is far more interested in the notion of her ruining whatever message Doran wished to send to the rest of Westeros. “That’s why you run off? To bully hardly trained Northerners?”

“Said squire is not ‘hardly’ trained.” Nymeria defends promptly. “He’ll thrash me by the next fortnight if I let up at all.” She immediately turns on the knight with a scowl as the Dayne looks entirely too amused. “And you best not repeat that to him!”

Arthur looks delighted she caught on though his comment is directed at her brother. “Jamie is a squire of considerable promise, Oberyn. I doubt Princess Nymeria could bully him in the slightest without severe effort. But, to answer your offense, your Grace, I doubt he has met a woman with aspirations of a warrior’s life, let alone a girl. He oft complains of a Dornish squire fighting with a foreign style and I think at this point his mind couldn’t comprehend your gender as being anything but male.” Nymeria opens her mouth to further complain when the Dornish Knight raises a hand to silence her. “If it’s any consolation, Young Jamie has found his opponent to be vexingly pleasing company. He enjoys your bouts all the more for your presence alone.”

She will _not_ blush at any compliments coming from that aggravating boy. She’d lay into him as soon as she found his stupid smug face again for failing to see the obvious. Irritated mahogany eyes level on the Dornish Knight as Nymeria says: “Some knight you are leaving him in his ignorance.”

Olive toned hands raise in deference. “It would be cruel to deprive you of the opportunity to correct him, Princess.”

“If I allow you to run wild as you have been.” Oberyn interrupts pointedly.

Nymeria pays him little mind. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Obie. It’s beneath you.”

“As much as you like to play hating our brother, you know his mind better than most.” Her brother returns with a piercing stare. “ _You_ are not meant for an aspiring knight’s fickle attentions, Nymeria.”

“Stomping his ego into a more manageable size is hardly promising my hand and you’ve no room to talk of _my_ purpose.” Nymeria’s voice is airy, though her gaze is hard. “The only one who can lecture me is Elia, seeing as she’s the one actually working to improve relations with the Northern Lords.”

Arthur Dayne blinks at the little girl, staring down the Red Viper and snorts. The two Martells turn to him with twin looks of mulish regard. “Yes, Dayne?”

The knight’s answering expression is roguish as he takes a knee and offers his right arm to the Dornish Princess. “I think I’ve found my patron for the final jousts.”

The display is enough to draw the attention of the other booth occupants and Cersei’s expression is tight. “Father says you always wear your sister’s favor, Ser Arthur.”

Nymeria remembers it too. It’s why she hadn’t thought to bring her best looking favor to Lannisport. The only one she held was a white sun on a purple field with the Martell spear piercing the center. It had entirely too obvious Daynish influence and Nymeria was mortified to realize it was her only option.

“I believe Ashara will forgive me, seeing as she was unable to attend.” His eyes caught hers and Nymeria swallowed thickly at the encouraging expression. “Would you allow me the honor of wearing your favor, Princess? I’d return it with the Crown when I win.”

“Prince Rhaegar will win.” The Lannister girl corrects confidently. Nymeria is grateful for the distraction because she turns to the older girl and smiles.

“They would both do better with a favor from the Host’s house, wouldn’t you agree Prince Rhaegar?”

If the Prince is taken aback by her boldness, he does not show it. If anything, a mischievous glint twinkles in his eyes. “Then I must insist on receiving such a thing. Ser Arthur has more experience in the lists and I am sadly at a disadvantage.” The prince offers his long fingered hand, black armor impeccable and smile disarmingly boyish as he bows sweepingly to Cersei Lannister. “Might you honor me with your favor, Lady Lannister? A lady can only favor one man after all.”

Ser Arthur’s grin is challenging. “Then _I_ must insist on the Princess of my homeland. Her blessing is all I require.”

“Must you?” Nymeria asks a little desperately as Cersei barely manages to hold down a squeal as she ties an elaborately embroidered lion’s crest to the Silver Prince’s left arm.

The only reason she made the damn thing was part of a set of gifts to Elia and Ashara for their fourteenth nameday. The star of house Dayne’s stitches had come out wrong and Nymeria opted to shift it into her House’s sigil if in Dayne colors so as not to waste the piece. She’d been teased relentlessly by her brother for keeping it, even moreso when he realized her stupid crush on the Dayne. She could feel him smirking at her back at the thought of the man seeing physical proof of her crush.

“Don’t deny the man the only feminine touch available to him in nearly a decade, Nym. It’s horrendously selfish. In fact, we both know just the article to use for such a blessing. It’s already granted one victory in this Tourney.”

Nymeria swears lowly in High Valyrian, cursing Oberyn’s children to be demons to their father, five times over. It startles a laugh out of the Targaryen Heir but she shifts the slit in her dress to pull her favor free ignoring the sputtering of Lannister’s simpering hangerons or Ser Arthur’s look of shock.

It’s tied to the leather strapped to her thigh and used to prevent the blades pressed against her skin from leaving too serious of an imprint. Oberyn wore it for the melee at the beginning of the Tourney and after a short wash it was in great condition. Now it’s damp from her sweat and she hadn’t a chance to wash it in three days. The Princess hadn’t really cared for the state since she had no intentions of showing it to anyone. Of course Oberyn had to be a bastard and encourage this sort of thing.

The square of cloth is held in her too tight grip and Nymeria feels her face flame. “With this favor, I give my blessing in the hopes that you may triumph over all who stand against you. Keep his aim true, his mount steady, and his arm strong.” She says the words in a steady voice though she cannot lift her gaze to catch the no doubt embarrassed knight as she unravels the image and binds it carefully around his dominant arm. “And stop calling me Princess.” She adds as she steps back and looks over the edge of the booth towards the keep carved into the mountain, avidly avoiding anyone else’s gaze. “I’ve no hold over you and you’ve seen me finger paint the Queen’s solar with sea prunes. I think Nymeria is appropriate enough.”

“What’s this then?” An unpleasant voice interrupts and Nymeria is bending into a curtsy before the King’s question is fully out of his mouth. She’s not the only one to automatically yield to him and it grates her, that this bully is someone she must defer to.

“An exchange of patrons, Father.” Rhaegar answers. “Lady Lannister has given me her favor and I aim to represent her well in the finals.”

“You best _win,_ boy.”

Arthur’s head does not rise at the implication that he _should_ fail, but Nymeria sees his lips tighten through the curtain of his hair.

The King glares at them for a longer moment before shooing them away. “Off with you. I want this done. We’ve spent long enough in Tywin’s home. They’ll forget _who_ ’s King if we remain any longer.”

They disperse as bid, though Ser Arthur pauses long enough to snag her hand in his grip and kiss her knuckles with a wink. “It shall be returned shortly, Nymeria.”

Oberyn chuckles at her flushed expression but the Princess can’t hear him over the hammering of her heart.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?


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